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THE END OF AUGUST IS in my top three favorite times of year in northern Michigan. It’s still summer, so it’s perfectly acceptable to walk down to the beach for an afternoon swim before coming home to drink a cold one and throw some steaks on the grill, but it’s close enough to autumn that visions of pumpkins, football, crisp mornings, and falling leaves dance through my optimistic mind. I vow to slow down and appreciate this fall season more than any other in my life.
Ryan has Evie tonight and tomorrow for his off days and Meryl is in a cribbage tournament out at the casino, so I have an afternoon free of plans. This used to be something I looked forward to, but now I’m worried about being alone with my thoughts in a quiet house, so I mentally scroll through possible activities to distract me while I walk out to the mailbox at the end of my driveway. The box is nearly full, and I flip through the stack on my way back up the drive.
First, an envelope from a company I used to partner with on social media – no doubt it’s a copy of the dissolution of our contract. I’ve received dozens of these in the last year. The only company that I hadn’t heard from was the meat market here in town, but I got the Yooper version of a contract dissolution when I ran into Mr. Brown in line at the pharmacy shortly after my release and he awkwardly patted me on the back and said, “Glad yer’ out kid, but how’s about we back off on posting my meats to your little account for a while, eh?”
The next envelope is my water bill, which I’m dreading.
My legal fees, which is money well spent.
My therapy bill, which is money very well spent.
An envelope full of coupons from Elmer’s County Market from Marc’s mom, Cindy. She quit shopping there when her high school boyfriend took over as manager but can’t bear to see the coupons go unused.
Next is People Magazine, which I’m looking forward to reading now that my small-town crime is no longer worthy of national media attention.
An envelope without a return address, with my name and address hastily scribbled in red sharpie. I don’t need to open it to know it’s another threatening letter, filled with bible verses, telling me what a murderous heathen I am and how I deserve to rot in hell, from a woman named Susan who very much believes she is sending these letters anonymously. She was in Mitzi’s bridge club and is one of her dozen or so supporters. She’s just a little more vocal than the rest. My state-of-the-art cameras caught her tiny frame putting the first few letters in my mailbox after dark before she got lazy and began letting the USPS deliver her threats across town. I don’t have the patience or the desire to do anything about it, so I just toss them in the trash.
The last envelope also has a familiar look and it’s without a return address, as well. I open it to find yet another cashier’s check for one-thousand dollars. Just like the last six that I’ve received since the release of Quinn Harstead’s book. I shake my head and smile. The last time I met with Quinn, she told me, “It would be illegal for you to profit off the crime you were convicted of, but if a few dollars randomly land at your doorstep, there’s no way to prove where they came from.”
Despite my protests, she continues to send these payments. I told her I don’t want to profit from the death of Mitzi. I just wanted my voice to be heard and Quinn did an incredible job of making that happen. The book has been very well received. She did a fantastic job of portraying the charm of Delta County, while also giving all sides to the story so the reader can make an educated decision before passing judgment based solely on the salacious headlines. Luckily, the court of public opinion has weighed heavily in my favor. Not so lucky for Ryan, because a large number of angry women now have him listed as public enemy number one.
My phone vibrates as I’m entering my house and I smile when I see that it’s the SHARK group text.
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LABOR DAY PLANS? -SAM
OMG I was thinking of visiting my parents. Escanaba reunion? – Alisa
I’m in. Let’s all ditch our kids and have a sleepover at Heath’s. – Rebecca
I snort out a quick laugh and join the thread.
You don’t have any kids, idiot. But, yes, Ryan is actually taking Evie that weekend, so bring it on. I’d love to see you guys!
After excitedly agreeing to the childless sleepover proposition, Alisa and Sam say they’ll be in town next Friday around dinner time. I agree to cook for everyone at seven. Meryl is going to be overjoyed when she hears the girls are coming. She used to love sitting at the kitchen table and listening to us gossip when Kelly was still around. Meryl is everyone’s favorite aunt, and in high school, we started a tradition of sleeping at her house the night before Christmas Eve. She would cook us all Swedish pancakes in the morning and listen to us dish about the cutest boys in school.
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I DECIDE TO SPEND THE rest of the afternoon planting mums outside and listening to a podcast that Alisa guest hosted this week. The episode is about moms transitioning back to the office after nearly two years of working from home, and she has a lot to say on the subject. I smile as I put my headphones in, and press play to hear Alisa’s sweet yet confident voice socking it to the corporate patriarchy.
Normally I like to garden without my headphones in so I can listen to the birds and other sounds from Ludington Park, but since my release, they’ve become a necessity. Most people who walk by won’t enter my yard and speak to me directly, but I can hear them not-so-discreetly wondering if I’m that Heather Matthews as they slow their pace in front of the house. Hearing their half-ass attempts at whispering slander is somehow worse than if they approached me directly, so I just plug my ears and listen to yacht rock or whichever podcast has caught my attention that week. I also used to love sitting on the rocking chairs on my front porch, but now any leisurely outdoor time is spent in the backyard, behind the privacy of my six-foot fence.
I’m carefully placing a group of mums into the soil of a large planter and listening to Alisa describe the benefits of a home-office hybrid schedule when a hand is placed gently on my shoulder, yet still manages to momentarily make my heart stop. I fall over from my crouched position and land squarely on my ass, while simultaneously pulling the headphones from my ears.
“Frank!”
He has his right hand up in defense, his left hand gripping a brown paper bag with Applewood Eatery stamped on the front, which he thrusts forward to show me.
“I’m sorry, I tried to get your attention when I parked, but you didn’t hear me. I brought you lunch,” he says with an apologetic shrug.
“Oh, Frank. You’re so wonderful. I could use a break, and I’m starving. Let’s go inside.”
“That sounds like a plan, kid,” he responds.
I see him glance to the right of the front door as we enter. There is a patio seating arrangement opposite the rocking chairs, that features an incredibly comfortable padded sectional with a coffee table in front. He raises his hand to suggest it, looks into my eyes, and quickly grasps why I don’t want to dine outside, exposed. It’s a shame; the weather is perfect for it today.
As I’m washing my hands in the kitchen, Frank begins unpacking the contents of the bag and I note there are three sandwiches and three bags of chips. He’s not-so-casually looking around the house as he sets them out on the breakfast table.
“Meryl is at a cribbage tournament out at the casino, but I bet she’ll be starving when she gets home. How about I put it in the fridge for her?” I ask, trying to suppress my grin. “Oh, chicken salad, her favorite.”
“Oh, is it?” he asks, feigning ignorance.
“Sure is,” I respond with a smile.
Lisa, who was undeniably the love of Frank’s life, has been gone for a little over a year. So has Meryl’s husband, Rick. There was a little mutual infatuation between the two in high school, over forty years ago, but Meryl never acted on it because of concern over their different social statuses. He has been dropping by out of the blue the last few months, under the guise of checking on me, but he always manages to focus his attention solely on Meryl when she’s here. She’s a little oblivious to his advances, so I’m just letting it play out without getting involved. God knows I need the entertainment around here.
“You know, Frank, I just logged into my bank account, and I see you still haven’t cashed my rent checks.”
He unwraps his sandwich and shrugs his shoulders as he takes a bite.
“It’s your house, my dear. You shouldn’t be writing rent checks.”
I pull open my bag of chips and smile when I see they are dill pickle, my favorite.
“And you loaned us the money for the house, which means I still need to pay you back. I’ve been picking up more hours at the bookstore and I can afford it, I promise,” I say. I don’t mention that I’m also receiving unsolicited checks from the woman who wrote a best-selling book about his wife’s demise.
“We can revisit the topic next summer, how’s that?”
I shake my head.
“Oh, Frank. I’m certain I don’t deserve all that you continue to do for me. Thank you.”
He puts his hand over mine, which was just about to pick up half of my sandwich.
“Kid, you’ve been through the wringer, and some of it may have even been my fault. It’s the least I can do.”
“We both have, Frank.”
We finish the rest of our meals, mostly in silence. Whether I’m alone or in the presence of someone involved in the incident, the silence is always the worst. My thoughts race through the possible options of what could be going through his head. Does he regret supporting me after what I did? Is he happy that Ryan and Julie are together? Is he thinking of Lisa?
“I was just thinking about some nice big pots I saw on sale at Menards. If you hold off on planting the last two mums, I’ll pick them up for you. They’d look great on each side of the garage.”
I laugh.
“What?”
“Nothing, Frank. That sounds wonderful. Thank you for thinking of me.”